


a thousand miles just to slip this skin

by Rhovanel



Category: Original Work, Streets of Philadelphia - Bruce Springsteen (Song)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Banter, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Needles, Post-Apocalypse, non-graphic description of a wound, softer than the tags suggest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:22:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhovanel/pseuds/Rhovanel
Summary: Jude believes that there is nothing in the wasteland, but a chance encounter with a stranger might just prove him wrong.





	a thousand miles just to slip this skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kurage_hime](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurage_hime/gifts).



They called it Philadelphia.

They called every city something, once. New York. Boston. Washington. Pittsburg. Jude knows the names well enough, but no one uses them any more. There’s nothing left in the cities, they say. Nothing but rust and dust.

But there _is_ something in the city, Jude thinks. There’s something rotten lurking in its bones, and it’ll find its way into your own bones if you’re not careful. The city wastes away slowly, but the people waste faster. He knows the symptoms. Everyone knows the symptoms. It starts with dizziness, and fatigue, and a heart that beats wildly in a body that refuses to move.

It ends with death.

He’s seen it, over and over and over again. It’s a bit like watching a clockwork toy slowly wind down: people slow, and stagger, and eventually come to a complete stop. But there’s no way to wind them back up again.

There’s no cure (and no doctors to administer it). There’s no vaccine (and no scientists to create one). There’s only one method of prevention: to keep moving. It’ll only catch you if you stop running.

Jude has been on the road for years. He has it timed perfectly: seven to ten sunrises in a city, and then you either depart or you die. He has no direction, he has no desires, he just has the road.

There’s nothing else out there.

********

He spends days in Philadelphia, resting and preparing for the next leg of the journey. He collects water from the river and boils it over his small campfire, filling his precious bottles. He shakes the dust out of his clothes and cleans the scarf he uses to cover his face. He uses his knife to trim his hair and his beard.

He also walks the city streets. He does this in every city he visits, walking the empty paths, looking at the crumbling buildings. He’s old enough to remember what they were like before, although he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, much. But when in the cities, he finds himself compelled to retrace familiar paths, to whisper the names of the places that no one else remembers.

In Philadelphia, he’s drawn to the old art museum. He likes camping out in museums: they’re large enough that you can pick and choose the sturdiest of rooms, and they’re airy enough that you can light a campfire without risk of suffocation. They’d all been raided long ago, and most people leave them alone, afraid of being reminded of all the things they no longer have.

Or more accurately, he suspects, afraid of not remembering those things at all.

There’s no past and there’s no future on the road. If you stop to look back, you’ll never keep going; if you keep your eyes on the sky, you’ll trip and fall. It’s safer that way, and it’s easier, and he follows that unwritten law like it’s his religion. But when he’s in the cities, walking the line between life and death, he lets himself have the luxury of looking back.

********

On his seventh morning in Philadelphia, he meets Colm.

He’s sitting at the bottom of the steps outside the museum, repairing a tear in one of his shirts, when he sees a man approach. He has a rucksack slung over one shoulder and is heavily favouring his right leg.

Jude tenses up. Strangers are unpredictable, and unpredictability is dangerous.

The man limps over and sits down few steps away, dumping his rucksack on the ground. He breathes heavily for a few moments, then looks over at Jude. He has dark wavy hair with a hint of grey at his temples, and a scar that curls up the side of his cheek. He’s younger than he is, Jude guesses, but probably not by much.

“Race you to the top?” the man asks, quirking his head towards the top of the steps.

Jude stares at him. People rarely talk to one another on the road: they might stop to warn of bandits or a bad stretch of tarmac, but they rarely make conversation, and they never, ever joke.

Later, he'll think that it was something about where he was sitting, with the ashes of civilisation at his back and the ghosts of the city sprawling out in front of him, that made him meet a joke with a joke instead of just turning his back.

“The Philadelphia marathon isn't until the fall,” he says dryly.

A slow, delighted smile spreads across the man’s face. “Philadelphia," he says slowly, like he's testing the word. "Now there's a name I haven't heard for a very long time." He holds out his hand. "I’m Colm." 

Jude looks at his hand, but makes no move to take it.

“Alright, you don’t trust me,” Colm says. “That’s fair.”

“You might be trying to rob me,” Jude replies.

Colm spreads his arms. “Do I look like a robber?”

Jude takes in his odd collection of clothes: a frayed leather jacket, a broken watch, and hiking boots that would have been expensive back when things had monetary value.

“Honestly, yes,” he says.

Colm laughs. “Well, you’re armed with a sewing needle, so I think I could probably take my chances.”

Jude doesn’t smile. It’s been so long since he smiled. But he feels it in his body: a skip of his heart, a sudden exhalation, a loosening of the tension in his gut.

“So, what brings you to Philadelphia?” Colm asks, waving a hand at the city in front of them.

“My tailoring business,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Colm smiles again, a broad smile of genuine delight. “I like you,” he says. “You’ve got a sense of humour. That’s a rare thing to find out here.” He gets to his feet suddenly, shouldering his bag. “Maybe I’ll see you around, Mr Tailor,” he says, turning away towards the river.

“Jude,” he calls out. “My name is Jude.”

Colm looks back over his shoulder. “Nice to meet you, Jude,” he says, with that fearless, brilliant smile.

It shouldn’t be enough to leave him feeling scattered all day, but it does, like a sudden gust of wind blowing straight through his soul. It shouldn’t be enough to delay his plans of moving on, but somehow, it is.

********

When Jude leaves the museum early the next morning, Colm is already sitting on the steps. He looks up as he approaches. “Thought I might see you here again today.”

Jude sighs. “What are you doing here?” he asks. “Did you want something mended?”

Colm smiles. “Maybe later,” he says. He stands up and follows as Jude makes his way down the steps, still limping heavily. “How long have you been in the city?” he asks.

“A few days,” Jude says vaguely. “What happened to your leg?”

“I stepped on something sharp.”

“Sharp enough to go through your boots?”

“No, I wasn’t wearing them.”

Jude looks at him incredulously. “You weren’t wearing them,” he repeats.

“I wanted to feel the grass between my toes,” Colm says.

“The grass is dead,” Jude says, before he can stop himself.

“Well, I’m not,” Colm laughs, but there’s a bitter edge to it. “Don’t you want to feel something, Jude? Anything at all to break up the endless void of this world?”

“Like a lasting injury?” Jude nods at his foot. “You’re either a masochist or a romantic. Not sure which is worst.”

“And you’re a fatalist.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But it’s kept me alive so far.” He sets a path for the city, and is somewhat surprised when Colm continues to limp along beside him.

“Where are you going?” Colm asks.

“Nowhere.” At Colm’s raised eyebrow, he sighs. “For a walk. I…used to live here, once. Before.”

“Really?” Colm says, looking at him with interest. “Not many people talk about before, these days.”

“No, they don’t.”

“But you do,” Colm says. It’s not quite a question, so Jude doesn’t answer. “Is that why you’re camped in the old museum?” Colm continues.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you one of those people who’s obsessed with restoring what we’ve lost?”

Jude sighs. He doesn’t want to get into this debate. “No,” he says. “We can’t go back. But…someone has to remember.”

“I think someone has an over-active sense of duty.” Colm’s tone is light, but his eyes are wide and warm and filled with something that looks like wonder. It makes Jude feel uneasy, and he changes the subject.

“Can I ask you a question? Why do you wear that thing?” he asks, gesturing at the broken watch on Colm’s wrist.

“Well,” Colm smiles, “my mother used to say that I was like a stopped clock: right twice a day.”

“I think your mother might have been insulting you,” Jude mutters without thought.

Colm chuckles. “You’re probably right,” he says. “But that’s not why I wear it.” He looks out at the city. “I wear it to remind me that even at the end of the world, even when time means nothing beyond the next sunrise, there’s still something that’s right out there, and I’ll stumble on it eventually.”

Jude snorts. “You are a romantic,” he says.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“How long have you been on the road, Colm? There’s nothing out there.”

“Maybe not,” he replies. “But maybe there is. There’s got to be something more than this.”

They walk the streets together for hours. Colm keeps up an endless stream of chatter, and Jude finds himself pointing out old landmarks and familiar corners. Laughter is a scarce resource these days, but Colm is generous with his. He is free and easy and open with his heart in a way that Jude envies.

He does not think he has the courage to be so open with his own.

********

When the clouds begin to darken with the telltale signs of a dust storm, Jude leads them back to the museum. “Where are you sleeping?”

“Wherever I can,” Colm says. His limp is more pronounced, and his mouth is set in a grim line.

“I think I should look at that,” Jude says, nodding at his foot.

“It’s fine,” Colm mutters, but Jude can see a faint sheen of sweat on his forehead.

“Colm,” he says. “It’s not fine.” He grips his arm. “Come with me,” he says, leading him through the entrance of the museum.

“Sewing up a foot isn’t the same as sewing a hole in your shirt,” Colm says.

“I used to be a doctor,” Jude replies. “Before.”

Colm looks at him with surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He eases him down onto the pallet he’s made up in the corner, then strips off his shoes and socks. “You absolute idiot,” he snaps, as he takes in the red inflammation around the weeping wound. “How long have you been walking around on this?”

“Well, it’s not like I can stop moving, can I?” Colm hisses, teeth clenched against the pain.

“You’re never going to find your precious future if you kill yourself through neglect first.” He sighs. “Well, it doesn’t need stitching, so I suppose it could be worse.”

“I thought you were a fatalist,” Colm replies.

Jude ignores him, gently prodding the skin. “This needs to be cleaned and bandaged.” He puts Colm’s foot down and moves to his rucksack, rummaging around until he finds two of his most prized possessions: a half empty bottle of Scotch, and a precious tube of antiseptic cream.

“Where in the world did you find those?” Colm says, his eyes widening.

“Maybe I robbed someone.”

Colm laughs, his face lighting up. “Takes one to know one, does it?”

Jude passes him the bottle. “Drink that,” he says. “I’m going to clean the wound, and it’s going to hurt.”

Colm looks like he wants to argue, but takes a gulp of Scotch. He’s stoic while Jude cleans and dresses his foot, but Jude can see his fingers trembling slightly around the neck of the bottle.

“Why are you helping me?” he asks.

Jude finishes wrapping the bandage around Colm’s foot. “I like you,” he says slowly. “You’ve got hope.” He glances up to meet his eyes. “That’s a rare thing to find out here.”

He moves to stand up, but Colm reaches out and grabs his wrist, using it to pull himself up into a sitting position.

Jude frowns at him, a rebuke on his lips, but before he can speak, Colm leans in and kisses him.

His lips are chapped from endless days on the road, and Jude unthinkingly slides his tongue along the roughness, chasing the taste of Scotch on his lips. Colm opens his mouth eagerly with a soft sigh, and Jude reaches out to grasp the back of Colm’s head to pull them closer together, curling his fingers in his hair. It’s been so long since he’s felt this, this slide of lips and tongues and soft, wet heat.

It’s Colm who pulls away first, taking a shuddering breath. He reaches out to pat his cheek.

“I’m going to pass out now,” he says, before collapsing back into the blankets.

Jude watches him, his lips tingling with Scotch, his wrist burning with the echoes of fingerprints.

********

Jude leaves Colm sleeping the next morning and goes down to the river, re-filling his empty bottles. He watches the sunrise, the ninth one he’s seen in Philadelphia. He really needs to move on, he knows, but he should probably keep an eye on Colm. One more day won’t hurt, he tells himself. He could leave in the evening, or first thing tomorrow. He’s still got time.

When he returns to the museum, Colm is sitting at the top of the steps. Jude rushes up to take him by the arm. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I had to piss,” Colm says. “And I didn’t…I wasn’t sure if you were coming back.” There’s a vulnerability in his voice that cuts straight to Jude’s heart, and he tightens his grip on his arm.

“Come back inside and lie down,” he says. Colm leans on him gratefully as he helps him back to the pallet he’d laid out last night. “How are you feeling?”

“Sore,” Colm replies. “But a good kind of sore, I think.”

Jude lightly runs his hands around his foot, then reaches out to touch his forehead. “You’re not hot,” he says. “That’s a good sign.”

Colm smirks. “You thought I was hot enough last night.”

Jude drops his hand. “I wasn’t sure if you remembered that. You were kind of out of it.”

“Remember it?” Colm says with mock outrage. “Of course I remember it! It’s not every day someone kisses you so thoroughly you pass out from it.”

Jude snorts. “That was from the pain,” he says, but he can feel himself flushing. He stands up. “You need to rest that,” he says, nodding at his foot.

“I don’t have time for rest.”

“A few days, at least. There’s time.”

Colm sighs. “Fine, I guess.” He props himself up on one elbow, raising an eyebrow. “But if I’m going to be trapped in bed all day, you could at least have the courtesy to join me.”

Arousal coils through Jude’s belly, low and hot. He swallows. He should leave. He should turn around, and walk out of this museum, and never look back.

Instead, he sits down carefully beside him. “Colm,” he begins, a million warnings and refusals and doubts on his tongue, but he falls silent as Colm presses his thumb against his lips.

Jude reaches down to take his wrist, his fingers running across the broken clock face. _A stopped clock is right twice a day_ , he thinks, looking back up at Colm’s face.

So he kisses him. He kisses him with all the certainty he won’t allow himself to feel, with all the hope he can’t quite bring himself to believe.

Colm lies back down, pulling Jude on top of him. He reaches down to squeeze his ass, laughing as Jude jerks with surprise, pulling back to glare at him.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Colm says. “You’ve got a great ass.” He winks.

Jude retaliates by lowering his head, nipping and sucking at the rough skin on his neck.

“ _Fuck_ , Jude,” Colm gasps, clutching desperately at his shoulders, tilting his head back to bare more of his neck.

“Yes,” Jude says dryly. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”

Colm starts to chuckle, but his laughter turns into a moan as Jude moves lower, unbuttoning his shirt so he can run his hands through the hair on his chest.

“What do you want?” Jude asks, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses to his stomach. “Tell me what you want.”

“Come back up here and kiss me.”

Jude crawls back up, but just as he’s leaning in, Colm reaches down to tug at his pants.

“And take these off,” he says.

Jude kisses him once, twice, three times, then pulls himself up so he’s straddling his hips. He slowly undoes his belt, watching Colm’s eyes turn dark with desire. Jude reaches down to run his hand over the bulge in Colm’s own pants, smiling softly as he groans and bucks up into his hand.

“You too,” he says.

“God, yes,” Colm gasps.

Jude swings himself off Colm for a moment, stepping out of his pants and helping Colm remove his own, taking extra care around his swollen foot.

“Should’ve taken these off last night before I bandaged you,” Jude mutters.

“Knew it,” Colm says. “I see right through your doctor act - this whole time you were just trying to get into my pants.”

“Fuck you,” Jude replies, kicking their clothes across the floor.

“Please,” Colm smirks. “Now hurry up about it.” He pulls Jude back on top of him, and they both groan as they finally meet skin to skin. Colm arches his back, thrusting up against him, and Jude buries his face in his neck as he meets his rhythm.

“You know what?” Colm smiles between soft gasps. "I- _oh_ \- really miss lube."

“Honestly,” Jude says dryly, pulling back to look at him. "Do you ever stop talking?"

“Perhaps I need something to occupy my mouth,” Colm smirks. He grabs Jude's hand and pulls it up towards his face, licking hot stripes along his palm and fingers before pushing it back down. Jude takes the hint, lifting his hips slightly so he can take them both in his hand. He starts with a slow, tortuous slide of his fingers, drinking in the ragged moans Colm is making in the back of his throat. But when Colm starts trying to buck up against him, Jude's control snaps and he quickens the pace, and it isn’t long before Colm shudders apart in his arms, his eyes closed, that beaming smile on his face.

Jude can feel his own climax building, and he lowers his forehead to the side of Colm’s head, thrusting into the circle of his hand with a grunt. Colm pushes at his shoulders. “Let me see you,” he says, grabbing his chin in his hand. “I want to see you,” he gasps, and it’s enough to push Jude over the edge.

He collapses on top of him with a soft groan, and they lie there for a moment, sticky and sweaty and satisfied. After a few breaths, he rolls to the side to lie on his back, the museum quiet apart from their laboured breathing.

Colm lets out a shaky laugh. “I’ve been seeing the wrong kind of doctors,” he says.

Jude brushes his sweaty hair out of his face. “There aren’t any doctors any more.”

“You’re here, aren’t you?” Colm turns to face him, running a finger over his bicep. “What did you practice?”

Jude turns his face away to look at the ceiling. “Art history,” he mutters.

Colm gasps. “You shit!” he says, shoving him playfully. “I let you look at my foot!”

“Someone needed to.” He turns back to face Colm, his eyes roaming over his body. He has an odd collection of scars, and Jude reaches out to touch a long jagged one across his ribs. “What happened to you?”

Colm’s smile falls. “The same thing that happened to all of us.”

Jude withdraws his hand with a sigh, unwilling to ask any more questions. He moves to get up, but Colm curls his fingers around Jude’s arm.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he asks, throwing his leg over Jude’s hips and hoisting himself up so he’s straddling his lap. “I haven’t finished with you yet."

“Then I guess I’m staying here,” Jude says, as Colm leans down to kiss the words from his lips.

********

They spend the rest of the day in bed. They talk, and they laugh, and they explore one another’s bodies, taking their time as though time is something they both have.

The next morning, the tenth morning, Jude wakes with a sick feeling in his stomach. Colm is snoring softly beside him, his hair tickling his face. He gently pulls away, rolling onto his back and staring at the ceiling. It’s dusty and dirty and speckled with mould and water stains. He knows he needs to get up, and get out, and get back on the road before he can no longer do so.

He sighs. _This was a mistake_ , he tells himself. _You can’t get attached._ But he is so, so tired, and Colm is a warm, comforting weight against his body. He reaches out to touch his wrist gently, his finger sliding over the watch face down to the skin beneath. He can feel his heart beating, steady and sure, and it feels like anything but a mistake.

Colm stirs suddenly, rolling cover to slide his arm up Jude’s chest. He presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I can hear you worrying,” he says. “Go back to sleep.”

Jude reaches out to pull him closer, raising his hand to stroke through his hair, and he closes his eyes.

********

They fall into something of a routine. They forage for what they can, scraps of metal and old clothes and anything else they can find in the city. They walk the halls of the museum, and Jude tells Colm about the paintings and sculptures he remembers. One day he stumbles upon an old picture frame that’s surprisingly sturdy, and together they fashion it into a crutch. Colm hobbles around gleefully.

“I have never been framed before,” he laughs. “Will you tell stories about my beauty to someone one day?”

Jude shakes his head with a wry grin, but he leans in to kiss his smiling lips.

His head spins at the sight of Colm’s smile. His heart thuds at the touch of his hands and his lips. His muscles ache and his chest heaves.

He ignores it.

********

“Shouldn’t you be moving on, soon?” Colm says one night, as they sit in front of their campfire in the museum. “I mean, the night’s getting dark for me, and you were here already.”

“Where are you planning to go?” Jude asks, ignoring the question.

Colm shrugs. “South-east to Atlantic City. South-west to Baltimore. Does it matter?”

Jude struggles to take a deep breath. _It's just the smoke_ , he tells himself. “You’re the one who believes in the future.”

“But that’s the fun,” Colm says with a wave of his arm. “Anything could happen on the road, so it doesn’t matter which way I go!” His shoulders slump slightly. “It doesn’t matter at all.”

Jude looks at him. He thinks about the fearlessness with which he approached him on that sunny morning in Philadelphia. He thinks about his open face and his scarred body. He thinks about how laughter is just another way to mask fear.

“Colm,” he says quietly. “Did you hurt your foot on purpose?” Colm looks at him, surprise on his face. “Is this what you meant, when you said you wanted to feel something?”

“So?” Colm snaps.

Jude gets to his feet with a surge of anger. “Is this what this is?” he asks, gesturing between them. “Is this just another self-destructive tendency?”

Colm doesn’t answer immediately. Jude turns away from him, unable to look him in the face. But he turns too quickly, and he drops to his knees as dizziness washes over him.

Colm is at his side instantly. “Jude?” he says, touching his shoulder. Jude takes a shuddering breath and tries to move away from him, but Colm reaches around to lay his palm on his chest.

His traitorous heart beats wildly, thunderously, erratically.

“How long?” Colm whispers. “How long have you been in the city, Jude?”

“Fifteen sunrises,” he says quietly.

“Fuck!” Colm shouts. He steps away from him and runs a hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you say something?”

Jude puts his head in his hands, trying to stop the world from spinning. “Maybe you were right,” he says bitterly. “Maybe I just wanted to feel something.”

“Fuck,” Colm says again, his voice thick with emotion.

“Just go,” Jude says, his head still in his hands, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision. “Get out of the city, before it’s too late.”

“Jude,” Colm begins, but Jude passes out before he can hear any more.

When he wakes, Colm is gone.

********

The days blur into one another, and he loses track of time. It becomes more and more of a struggle to leave the museum. But he keeps walking the city streets, even as his body begins to fail. It feels right, somehow, like paying his own penance, or attending his own deathwatch.

Sometimes, he catches a glimpse of himself in the edges of the broken windows that line the streets. He’s nearly a stranger to himself: thin and insubstantial somehow.

It won’t be long now, he thinks. He’ll just be one more ghost on the streets of Philadelphia.

********

He sleeps. It’s all he has the energy to do. He dreams fitfully, of danger and death and decay. He dreams of skyscrapers that crumble into dust, and ghosts that linger on streets corners. He dreams of a bright smile, and a hand on his cheek, and a low voice murmuring something.

The voice won’t go away, and frustrated, he follows it up and out of the darkness.

There’s firelight flickering on the museum walls, which is strange, because he hasn’t lit a fire in days. He tries to turn over to find the source of the light, but there’s something sharp sticking into his arm. It’s a long thin tube, and he looks at it with confusion, before following it with its eyes to where it ends in the arm of someone else.

He looks up to see Colm’s face, smiling as always.

“What,” he croaks, and Colm moves across to help him drink some water. “You shouldn’t be here. You need to leave.”

“Well, in case you haven’t noticed, we’re kind of stuck together right now,” Colm says, raising his arm. A thin IV tube connects the two of them.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing?” Jude yells, pulling the IV from his arm.

“I was trying to save your life, you ungrateful shit," Colm says, but there's no bitterness in his voice, and his eyes are fond and soft. He pulls the other needle from his own arm, rubbing it gingerly. “I found a doctor - a real one, not some useless art historian. I’m not sure if this is going to work, but it’s worth a try.”

“Why were you giving me your blood?” Jude asks. He still feels groggy and confused, but the more he talks, the more the cloud lifts. He struggles to prop himself up on his elbows.

“The sickness gets into your bones, right? Well, this doctor thinks maybe it doesn’t - maybe it’s in your blood. I figured I could spare some of mine.”

“So the doctor just gave you an IV and sent you off to find a test subject?”

Colm smirks. “Actually,” he says, leaning towards Jude conspiratorially, “I robbed him.”

Jude feels himself smiling before he can stop himself, and his heart lifts at the sight of the answering smile on Colm’s face.

“How do you feel?” Colm asks.

“Like shit,” Jude mutters, and Colm laughs. He reaches out to touch his face.

“Well, at least you’re still hot,” he says. Jude lets out a choked laugh, which quickly turns into a cough. Colm rubs his back until his coughing subsides.

“We need to get you out of the city,” he says. He nods at Jude's arm. “This isn’t a cure."

“And go where?” Jude sighs. “We’ve had this conversation. You won’t find anything out there.”

“You’re wrong,” Colm says. “I found you.” He leans in and kisses him, swift and firm.

“Do you think you can stand?” Jude isn’t sure, but he nods anyway. “Good,” Colm continues. “Because I’ve been sitting here for hours and I’m bored out of my mind.” He strokes Jude's cheek gently, then moves away to begin collecting their belongings, stowing them in his rucksack.

Jude runs a hand through his hair and sits up fully. He’s tired, and still dizzy, but his head feels clearer than it has for days. He reaches for his boots and laces them up. Colm slings one arm around his waist and puts Jude’s arm across his shoulders, helping him to his feet. They start to move towards the door.

“You’re still limping,” Jude says, frowning.

“Don’t we make quite the pair?” Colm pauses as they reach the doorway, looking up at the sky. "Fuck, it's later than I thought. I should have checked."

"Yes, you should have checked the time on your broken watch," Jude says.

Colm laughs at his sarcasm, relief in his eyes. "Oh, I don't need to check that time," he says. "I know when that time is right."

"Twice a day, yeah?"

Colm tightens his grip on Jude's waist, looking him in the eyes. "You know," he says, his smile lighting up his face, "from now on, I think it might be a little more regularly than that."

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2019 Jukebox exchange for kurage_hime, who was interested in "Streets of Philadelphia" as a song about trauma, survival, and a man addressing his lover. I ran with those ideas for this little post-apocalyptic story, which I adored writing - thank you for the great prompt, and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Although "Streets of Philadelphia" is a song about the AIDS epidemic, this story is not meant to be an allegory for HIV/AIDS.
> 
> The title is a line from the song itself.


End file.
